


John, Beginning

by jharrisonburks



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-14
Updated: 2012-11-14
Packaged: 2017-11-18 15:45:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jharrisonburks/pseuds/jharrisonburks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shepard was named for a great war hero, living up to the legacy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John, Beginning

  * "We'll call him John."



His parents had told him he'd been named after a war hero. The father of the Navy, they told him. A great man from a long time ago, someone to whom Shepard could aspire, to grow into. On April 11th, he shared his birthdays with history's launch of Apollo13, they would tell him he was born for space. It was there in old vids of Shepard, as an infant teething on a model of a Soyuz TMA satellite held in pudgy little fingers, as a toddler taking uneasy steps in their prefab's living area as his father beamed with pride in the background.

"John has not yet begun to walk, Hannah!" he'd joke.

A running joke on his namesake's famous quote that would follow him throughout life, his parents teasing and poking at him with smiling faces.

Their faces had always been smiling, their eyes always honest from first day of school to last baby tooth to the middle ground of puberty. Holos of a family, big smiles and blue eyes and wiry limbs, left behind in the aftermath of Mindoir. He had left so much behind. There had been no time for sentiment, just blind panic, then shouting and smoke and the taste of blood in his mouth. The last memories of his childhood blurred by rubble and pistol wielding hands- human hands- reaching out to him, the Alliance emblem burning like a beacon.

  * "Shepard, John. Private 2nd Class."



The dog tags clink against his chest. He is sore and tired, the arches in his feet ache and his stomach is in at least three knots. Calloused, trembling hands run over buzzed hair, index finger skimming the line. He pretends not to hear the other guys as they chat in the mess, talking shit and trading conquest stories. He focuses on his protein bar, on the silver Alliance emblem on his uniform and chokes down the crumbly ration. It grates against his throat, raw from barking out his obedience to his CO. If he could get through a batarian raid, he could get through basic training. His father would be proud, he'd be smiling and slapping his tense back. 

"You have not yet begun to hurt, John," he'd chuckle, concern dipping into the pride. Shepard could barely remember what his father's voice sounded like; in his head, it sounded too much like his own.

  * "Lieutenant John Shepard, N7 Special Forces, Case No. 5923-AC-2826."



He can recite it in his sleep. He can recite it bloody and broken and exhausted as they haul him into the infirmary after the last skirmish. They shake their heads at him as the doctor rattles off his number and medi-gel coats a particularly nasty burn on his forearm and he fiddles with his dog tags, tangled and slipping out from the neck of his chestplate. He knows the numbers by heart and he tells himself he's more than that. He's more than an ID number, more than his rank, so much more than the Star of Terra hiding somewhere in his apartment. And so much less as well. Less than a war hero, less than an elite operative.

Shepard, with blue eyes and hardened shoulders and fireproof will, was still just some colony kid from the Traverse who had a habit of lucking out against batarians. If he could survive the Blitz, if he could survive the raid... he could graduate N7 training.

Shepard knows his mother would be worried about him. She'd frown and she'd pinch the little folds of skin between her eyebrows and sigh in exasperation as if he had fallen out of a tree and not been shot by a vorcha. And his father would wrap his arms around her shoulders and look Shepard dead in the eye with all the parental authority he could muster.

He'd warn," John. You have not yet begun to suffer."

  * "The first human Spectre, Commander John Shepard, Alliance Navy..."



For a while, it was all the news could talk about. The whole galactic media, exploding with speculation, adulation, and accusation. Shepard powers down his terminal, sweeping over to the bed in his cabin. If he listens carefully enough, he can hear the muffled hum of the Tantalus drive core. Tali and Adams had made a sincere effort to explain its importance, but Shepard had never cared much for engineering and ended up lost within seconds. The crew in the mess are barely audible, most in sleeper pods by now, though Shepard would bet credits Alenko might still be awake, tinkering with something or sneaking a snack to keep up with that biotic's metabolism.

He yanks at the chain around his neck, dog tags dragging against the fabric of his uniform. They were so small in comparison to his days starting out. It felt like they had weighed a ton, dragging him down and constricting against his throat. Now they lay draped in too-big hands of a colony kid from the Traverse with blue eyes and a mission to save the galaxy. He's not John anymore; he's Commander, he's Skipper and his mother would be so disappointed in him.

Ashley's a colony kid too, she can recite Tennyson, she gets drunk on whiskey during shore leave and dances like a rabid varren. Has a bite like a rabid varren, too. But Shepard isn't interested.

And when he leaves her, when he grabs Alenko's arm and guides him into the Normandy, he tries to pretend he didn't make the selfish decision and tells himself his reasons were definitely not born from brown eyes and hardened shoulders and a migraine-colored voice whispering "John."

And as he watches the explosion bloom over Virmire, Shepard knows he has not yet begun to know loss.

  * "Commander John Shepard, killed in action"



Shepard glances at his military profile on the news site once more before closing it, tipping back his chair, and absently watching the Thessian Sunfish zip around in little schools in the aquarium. Hard arms stretch out from worn out shoulders and Shepard swears he hears the whine of metal in his spine.

Somewhere beyond Shepard, beyond his terminal and the tech lab and Jack's hidey-hole were the Collectors. Like Freedom's Progress, Shepard was left bare, exposed to the elements. Horizon left him raw and not even the bottle of brandy shared in the med bay could burn away the frazzled nerves. Though wholly repaired, Shepard was...askew; uncalibrated and thrown off balance and those brown accusing eyes was a hard tap on the glass, scattering schools of fish.

In one fell swoop, one angry stand-off, he has nothing left to lose. 

If he could beat Saren Arterius, if he could beat Sovereign, if he could beat Udina to the punch... he could beat Horizon. He could choke down the lump in his throat like a crumbly protein bar. 

And the Collectors...they had not yet begun to piss him off.

  * "Is John Shepard still in there?"



At first, the question had angered him, had wounded him more deeply than a warp to the gut. Shepard would nurse the wounds in the Normandy lounge as Huerta nursed the Major into recovery. The lights would shine too bright and reflect off the Alliance emblem on his uniform. Rough fingers would carefully set his dog tags on the nightstand every night as he crashed into his pillow.

He knows Alenko wouldn't ask if he didn't care. He knows that on the outside looking in, his actions did seem reckless and morally ambiguous. Especially to the incorruptible second human Spectre staring down the barrel of his former CO's M-5 Phalanx while the Citadel rained fire and chaos around them.

Shepard couldn't have...he wouldn't. And now, the question, devoid of the betrayal and accusation it had been dragged down by on Horizon, on Mars, was now just a twist, a different approach to,"How's it going?"

It still hurts. But less. Less like a warp to the gut and more like one of Vega's punches to the shoulder. Stinging and warm, but the friendliness replaces the bitterness now. He's still in there, wrapped up in Commander, shuffling somewhere in between Skipper and Loco.

And when Kaidan asks, Shepard isn't careening through space curing genophages and unearthing ancient lifeforms. He's swimming, adrift in the smell of steak and ozone and cologne. But he knows he has not yet begun to heal.

Alenko knows that, in the end, Commander Shepard, the first human Spectre, is just blue eyes and knotted muscles. His mother would be happy for him; his father pushing him to make a move, don't let him slip through your fingers this time. They have all the time in the rapidly wasting world.

Maybe Kalahira was looking out for him.

  * "John..."



It's a desperate oath, teetering on the edge of a cry for help. His voice rough and warm like expensive whiskey, whispering Shepard's name in the dim light as their bodies rock against the gravity of the moment. It's teeth on flesh, fingers twisted into sheets, mouths chapped and chafed and Kaidan tastes like he smells. 

For a while, Shepard can forget Kai Leng. He can wipe his mind of Thessia and Cerberus and the millions, billions of lives that depended on him and the billions more he couldn't save in time. Right now, the rest of the galaxy was a lifetime away. Kaidan burns like the Sun, pulsing and dangerous and Shepard's hands, his mouth pulled to him like revolving planets and when Kaidan presses deep enough, Shepard squeezes his blue eyes shut and counts the supernovas exploding in the back of his head.

Kaidan repeats his name like a mantra, the breathy syllables torn from his throat in pained, keening bursts as he collides with Shepard, shockwaves driving Shepard into the bed beneath them. The heat builds.

When Kaidan falls in a boneless, gasping heap of sore limbs and sticky bellies, Shepard can scarcely feel the itch of new skin over the old wounds. He can see himself reflected in Kaidan's blown pupils and he wonders if this is his way of being on the outside looking in.

For a second time that day, Shepard was falling. Not like Thessia, not in anguished burning ashes. No, it was slower and covert, a red-shift amongst the blue of his peers. And, as he lay scooped in Kaidan Alenko's arms, Shepard knew he had not yet begun to fall in love.

  * "Wake up, John"



The first thing Shepard is aware of when his consciousness stutters and reboots is utter confusion. He can hear concerned voices overhead but his eyes will not heed his commands to open. Every muscles throbs, every nerve seethes and Shepard can feel his heartbeat in his teeth. He opens his mouth and asks what happened. Or at least, he thinks he does, but maybe all that escaped was a quiet cough. At any rate he knows he has their attention as the chatter stops for a second.

"Commander, can you hear me?"

He recognizes the voice. Shepard gestures weakly, doing his best to provide an affirmative to Chloe. It must work because cool hands touch his cheek.

"It's over. You're going to be fine. It's all over now," she coos. And even with the accent, Shepard is reminded of his mother. He shuts down.

\---

Shepard listens carefully to Admiral Hackett relay what happened after he activated the Crucible. The Catalyst is never mentioned while they talk; Shepard has learned these kinds of things are best kept private.

His vision wavers and in the window of his recovery room, his blue eyes are glossy as Hackett reveals the unknown fate of the Normandy and her crew, the official position of MIA. The relays can be repaired, the cities rebuilt and he can shake Hackett's hand and accept the promotion to Captain, but Shepard nor London nor the Fifth Fleet can bring Kaidan back to him. The old hole in his chest quietly reopens and Shepard's center of gravity is rattled.

Shepard does what he can, attends the ceremonies when he's well enough, pulling dress blues with a shiny Alliance emblem over scarred shoulders. Wrex and Jack, left behind to face the rubble like Shepard, drink down the war with him. Wrex commiserates missing his children's birth on Tuchanka, Jack on how Rodriguez fought like a bitch out of hell to the very end. The relays, and Shepard as well, slowly get put back together. And when the relays are restored though he has not yet begun to move on, Shepard can almost pretend he's better.

  * "...John!"



The urge to tear his name off the memorial wall bubbles underneath Shepard's skin. Hands are reaching out to him, blue, three-fingered, human calloused and tan like his. And he accepts them, greeting his crew. Anxiety is like a static charge in his blood, his chest caves in in anticipation; it's gonna be what it is, he's reminded.

The elevator doors open and Shepard watches him step out. The room falls silent or, at least, it does for Shepard; if the crew continues to chatter on he doesn't hear it. Every bit of his senses is trained on brown eyes and heavy shoulders and a mouth that tumbles out his name, desperate and on the edge of a cry for help. A second passes.

Strong arms wrap around trembling ribs. Dog tags clink together softly. Bellies touch and shift against each other and hips bump together and fuse. Mouths, hungry and angry, crash and meld and fingers fumble against jawlines and the heat spills over and Shepard wipes Kaidan's eyes with the pad of his thumb. Kaidan repeats his name like a mantra. Shepard, in turn, repeats the Major's like a prayer.

Shepard had always figured his name ordinary, an echo of heroes he might never live up to or a legacy of a family destroyed, but when being shakily muttered against his teeth by Kaidan Alenko, "John" becomes more than a name. It's an exaltation, a song of blue eyes and honest smiles and survival against the craziest odds. "John" is fighting like hell for the chance to hold him again.

And as far as Shepard's concerned, he and the Major have not yet begun to fight.

**Author's Note:**

> John Paul Jones was a Scottish sailor who fought during the American Revolution that possessed an iron will and refusal to surrender even when the outlook was bleak. He is remembered for his defeat of the HMS Serapis while commanding the Bonhomme Richard, a battle in which he faced down a larger and better-equipped fleet while the battered Bonhomme Richard took on water. He is often credited as the father of the United States Navy and is well known for his famous quote, "I have not yet begun to fight."


End file.
